


Beautiful Boy

by Salon_Kitty



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Gen, Lots of Hurt, comfort not so much, oodles of hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6508390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salon_Kitty/pseuds/Salon_Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He glides through the glass door – he can’t feel his feet touching the ground. Passing the half swoosh of the massive staircase that dominates the entryway, Adam moves on to the elevators and glances once at the reader board to find the right floor. He rides up alone and, thankfully, without interruption. The hum fills his head as he strains to keep all voices out. The agents will tell him soon enough. He’ll deal with things then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Water On Mars (or Slouching Towards Something Better)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049764) by [Salon_Kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salon_Kitty/pseuds/Salon_Kitty). 



> This work comes about as both in answer to a query and part of a continuation of sorts. The details of Jesse's captivity spring from two previous works, Water On Mars and Bunnies, but neither are required to read this as a stand-alone. otyg asked me, what if Jesse's parents had seen those videos? And then my horrified and damaged mind could not let it go.

 

 

 

Adam Pinkman stares at the stone placard in front of the federal building for an interminable minute as the cooling engine ticks like a metronome under the sweltering New Mexico sun. He crushes his cigarette into the ashtray – he’ll have to remember to stop by a gas station on the way home to clean it out. Betty isn’t wise to the return of his old habit yet and he wants to keep it that way. He worries that any slip up will only upset her; he can’t let her know that he’s struggling. His family needs him to be the rock through all this.

The home invasion by a legion of agents the day after Jesse went missing is still being felt throughout the house, the carefully placed settings in every room – the flower vase over the fireplace, or the fruit bowl on the dining room table – seeming to vibrate with a tinny anticipation of more violence. It’s been four months since that event, when the very fabric of Adam’s world and that of his family's was ripped into a void of stunned silence, and they’ve yet to learn of any more news. Adam has no idea if his son is dead or if he’s off somewhere in the shadows sowing more poison for his family to ingest. He makes a clearing noise in his throat as he takes a look at the clock on his dash. He’s been sitting here for five minutes now.

Turning off the car’s power with the last flick of the key, Adam opens the door with a heavy sigh and pushes himself out onto the pavement and into the shimmering heat. The message had been brief, and the caller’s voice held no indication whether the meeting would be bad or not. Adam can’t even begin to imagine what would qualify as good news in this situation, that which remains unspoken hardly a comfort but this idea that Jesse is gone, that Jesse might be buried in some patch of desert with a gunshot in his head leaves Adam with a weirdly vacant hole in his chest, one that sucks in air like a tear through the walls of a jet plane at thirty thousand feet.

He glides through the glass door – he can’t feel his feet touching the ground. Passing the half swoosh of the massive staircase that dominates the entryway, Adam moves on to the elevators and glances once at the reader board to find the right floor. He rides up alone and, thankfully, without interruption. The hum fills his head as he strains to keep all voices out. The agents will tell him soon enough. He’ll deal with things then.

Stepping out into a busy walkway, Adam dodges bodies that stride by with hurried determination and makes his way across the orange squares of carpet to the front desk. A young woman in glasses is speaking into the phone as other lines continue to ring. He stands waiting patiently until she’s done.

“Can I help you?”

“Hello. I’m here to see, um, Special Agent-In-Charge Ramey, I believe?” He speaks low, not wishing for anyone else to hear the nature of his business. “I received a call at work asking me to come down to your offices.” He clears his throat again as the receptionist stares expectantly. “I’m Adam Pinkman. It’s to do with the … the White case.”

Understanding suddenly flickers into her eyes. “Oh, right. Yes, of course. They’ve been waiting for you. Let me get someone to escort you to the meeting room, Mr. Pinkman. Take a seat in the meantime.”

Adam sits down in the waiting area. The furniture is flat and drab, the whole look of the interior about three decades old. He casts his gaze to the array of magazines with only a passing interest, the business and finance titles appealing to his professional curiosity. It’s barely been a few minutes before footfalls clicking on the tile announce someone’s arrival.

“Mr. Pinkman?”

Adam glances up and smiles automatically to the woman dressed in a smart grey suit, her hair in a bun. “Yes?”

“Thank you for coming down, sir. I’m Miss Wallis.” She extends her hand and Adam shakes it, the softness of her skin reminding him of the way Betty gripped his hand all through their last interrogation. “Please follow me. Our SAC is on a conference call right now but he’ll be with you shortly.”

“Okay,” he agrees and gets in step behind her, their trail leading through a seemingly endless hallway of doors with no windows. She opens one and guides him into a room with a long table, almost a dozen plush chairs surrounding it, not unlike his boardroom at work. There’s a laptop that’s opened at the end of it and Miss Wallis walks over to pull out the black chair that’s parked at the end. She waves her hand for him to sit down.

“Have a seat. It won’t be long, I promise. Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

“Oh, uh, no. I’m fine,” he says placidly, attempting another smile even though the pit in his stomach has now become a yawning chasm.

She leaves, closing the door quietly behind her, and Adam walks to the open chair as he takes in the room. They had been questioned at their house the first time, but while Adam had taken immediate measures to have his lawyer present, no charges were lobbed their way. He has no idea if the agents are even aware of Jesse’s previous meth lab in Ginny’s house, or his and Betty’s own complicit cover-up, but he doesn’t think this is that kind of meeting. He stares at the wall at the opposite end of him. A blue screened canvas hangs behind the chair across from his espousing ‘Global Presence With A Tradition Of Excellence’ under a backdrop of agents in the field. Below the quote, words of _courage_ and _strength_ and _honor_ are blocked out in a paler blue, messages that Adam believes in, even aspires to. He still can’t understand how he failed to make Jesse see these as virtues, as building blocks to becoming a man of integrity. He knows he gave up on his son long ago but it had become an unwinnable fight. He has to remind himself every day. His son was going to live how he wanted even if it brought everyone down with him. There comes a time when a parent has to cut the ties, when the well of empathy has been dried, and Adam thought he had made peace with that; had managed to put his first-born behind him to let him make his own choices. But you’re never prepared for the day a DEA squad shows up on your doorstep, informing you that your son is a criminal of staggering proportions, is more than likely a murderer. Adam wants to believe he’s come to terms with it, but one phone call and he’s reeling again. No one knows where Jesse is and yet he’s still impacting their family, a specter that looms over them and haunts their every waking moment. Jake has already had issues at school and the fact that Adam can’t fix it leaves him quaking in his office in the middle of the day, staring at his computer screen like he’s waiting for the face of his missing son to appear and tell him that it’s all over.

“Mr. Pinkman?”

Adam jumps in his skin as he hears the voice, turning in time to see two gentlemen walk in, one of them the tidy and trim figure of the SAC. He stands up in a hurry and extends his hand to them in greeting.

“Mr. Pinkman, I want to thank you so much for coming down here today,” Ramey says in that soft twang of his. “I know it’s been a long while since I’ve spoken to you about the case, but we’re hoping that you can help us in our investigation.” He points to the man next to him. “This is Agent Hoffman. He’ll be assisting with the confirmation.”

Adam’s ears prick up. “Excuse me? Confirmation?” he asks, the word summoning dread like a coiled asp in his gut.

“Yes, sir. Our office really can’t discuss anything over the phone, you understand, so we couldn’t explain the nature of your visit here. But let’s just sit down and we’ll get right to the point.”

“Okay. Sure.” The light seeping in through the row of blinds is too bright, is suffocating him, but he takes his seat and waits quietly.

“We still have no knowledge of your son’s, or Walter White’s, whereabouts. And frankly, after several months of no sightings, we’ve been working under the assumption that Mr. Pinkman … Jesse … was more than likely killed with our ASAC, Hank Schrader, and fellow agent, Steve Gomez. The phone call we received from White was very incriminating, giving us little choice but to presume our men are dead. White all but confessed to having Schrader killed.”

Adam takes a breath, letting some much needed air into his lungs. A ringing in his ears has begun. “You told me and my wife most of this already. But you don’t know for sure, right? I mean, if you don’t know where my son is, then why am I here?”

“Well, we’re slowly putting some pieces together, but it’s taken some time. We were able to sift through the lawyer’s records and made connections to both your son and also to White. And then … a few days ago … well, we may have found something. Something that could change the outcome of this case, altogether. Now, we don’t know for sure that it’s Jesse, Mr. Pinkman, which is why we need you to see what we’ve uncovered.”

His pulse quickening, Adam sits calmly, nodding curtly to the two men. “Okay. What is it? What do you need me to do?”

Ramey shoots a glance to Hoffman and the two of them share a silent acknowledgement. Hoffman turns the laptop towards him and begins quickly tapping away at the keys, the sound like scurrying beetles on a rock. Agent Hoffman sits on Adam’s right with his back to the windows, the light behind him diffused into a white oblong coffin, and Adam squints from its merciless glare.

“Mr. Pinkman,” Ramey starts again, his tone suddenly grave. “What we’re about to show you is … well, it’s pretty disturbing. We wouldn’t be asking this of you if we’d been able to make a full ID.”

“What do you mean?” Adam interrupts. “ID. Identification of whom? Jesse?”

Ramey lets out an exhaust of breath as he ponders the question, his gaze fixed to the table. “Possibly.” When he turns back to Adam, their eyes lock, and Adam can see the sickly discomfort present there.

Agent Hoffman suddenly speaks. “Mr. Pinkman, we believe there may be another party involved.” He opens a file to the right of the laptop and holds out a glossy photo. “First of all, had you ever seen your son with this man?”

His stomach sinks. “Um, yes. Well, I mean, not together. He represented my son when … when he bought the house from us. But we didn’t realize it at the time.”

“Yes, we know about that. Saul Goodman is currently among the missing, although we were able to get quite a bit of information out of his associates. Goodman is believed to be the linchpin in the connection of Gus Fring to Walter White, and by extension, your son. He’s had involvement with several criminal groups; either representing them, or merely acting as a liaison in some cases. Another one of his associates, one that we had under investigation prior to White fleeing, has also vanished, although he’s been missing longer than the others. But with the remaining men on Fring’s crew all deceased - executed by inmates within minutes of each other - we’re thinking this man is most likely another homicide. So … we started looking at possible ties to a gang. Agent Schrader’s home was ransacked a few days after they all went missing. It didn’t appear to be White, and we know he couldn’t have organized the hit on Fring’s men in jail without some connections.”

“What does all of this have to do with Jesse?” Adam demands, his patience running thin. If they have a photo of Jesse, of anything that shows him alive, Adam needs to see it with his own eyes.

The two men share another quick glance, their faces still somber. “There is … a video,” Ramey continues. “Someone directed us to it under an anonymous tip. This is the type of content that you’ll typically find hidden under a Tor network. It’s like another layer of the internet, one that most of us can’t see, using encrypted software so that files can’t be indexed. People bury content in there, hide communication, use it to conceal funds, and it makes it very difficult for the FBI or any of our resources here at the DEA to track illicit activity. It can be done, of course. But it just takes some time.”

Adam gapes at the laptop just as Hoffman turns it in his direction. “My son made a video? Is that what you’re saying? Of what?”

Hoffman clears his throat. “ _He_ didn’t make the video, sir. But the people who did … if this is your son, we think we have a lead on what type of gang we’re looking for.”

The room suddenly feels claustrophobic as Adam’s breath is caught, his throat closing up and his jaw feeling encased in stone. He stares at the black screen, his imagination running wild as he feebly prepares for whatever they are about to show him. He doesn’t want to see Jesse doing terrible things, to have proof positive that his son is a monster, but he steels himself for the coming assault.

Ramey speaks softly again. “Please understand – if there had been any way that we could have done this without you, we would most assuredly have left you out of this.” The man takes a soldiering breath as he nods once to his partner. “There is … unfortunately, the man’s face is blocked enough times through most of this that our software couldn’t make an exact match. But whether this is your son or not, it is going to be shocking, so please, Mr. Pinkman, as soon as you think you can make a definitive identification … or not, let us know.”

Adam thinks he’s nodding his head but he’s not really sure. The air around him crackles with an electric heat as Hoffman hits a key and a picture bleeds onto the screen. There’s a freeze frame of an empty room, the walls painted black and so dingy it looks more like a cell. A concrete slab is centered in the middle of the frame where a set of heavy chains hang from the ceiling. Before Adam can take another breath, there’s a punch on the keyboard and then the still is in motion, figures suddenly crowding into the picture.

And then Adam sucks in a gasp, almost choking from the shock.

Two men have a third one between them as they approach the stone altar. Their faces are covered in black hoods but the one they drag by a chain, the one that’s whimpering and trying to buck out of their grip with a desperate fear, his face quartered by leather straps that run vertically across cheeks and up and down forehead to chin, a bright red ball fixed into his mouth – this one, this one catches his attention, won’t let Adam turn away for a second as the world comes to a standstill.

The hair is longer, dirty, almost unrecognizable. The resolution is frighteningly clear in the picture and Adam can see scars around the straps, can see jagged lines carved into the body that appears in chunks in and out of the frame. The screeches behind the gag still come in a torrent as the other two arrange him on the flat surface like they’re preparing a sacrifice. They turn his face away and Adam is grateful for the reprieve, watching with a horrified fascination as they hang his arms from the dangling chains, exposing the body, exposing his back. And as Adam stares at those shoulders, stares under the thatch of unkempt hair, his skin goes cold, his flesh crawling, and all the while, a scream in his head that begins and has no end, going on and on until its only an echo.

And then he suddenly sees Jesse on the front lawn of Ginny’s house, almost a year ago now, sees him squint into the sun as he asks for a tour of the renovations. That fear that had gripped Adam then – he wouldn’t get sucked in again, he couldn’t allow it – and yet he still hadn’t wanted him to go, wanted those few seconds to simply talk to his son in normal conversation. It had been ages since they could talk about anything without it ending in a screaming match, Jesse’s fits always so exhausting. Betty always so deflated by the end of them, like Adam was literally watching her shrink by degrees with every fight.

The other two hooded figures begin their performance, or whatever it is Adam is meant to be witnessing, and with every punch into that body, with every increasing assault – the implements of their torture becoming more twisted and surreal the further it continues – Adam endures the screams, feels his skull crack at the sound of them, can suddenly hear his own voice raised in anger. _Why?! Why_ _are you doing this to us?_ He would scream it to his son over and over. Each time Jesse would come home after days missing. No communication, no explanation, but then showing up so obviously high and flaunting it in their faces.

 _This is what you wanted, isn’t it?_ Jesse shouted once. Before he went to stay with Betty’s sister, before the house finally quieted down and their lives started to feel normal again. _I’m no good, just like you said._

There’s another high-pitched curdling scream and Adam can’t bear it, can’t look at this anymore, wants it all to be over, but something is holding him there, a sly, slick voice whispering to him. _This is what happens_. It sounds like Jesse, that low shudder of a laugh as he mocks him.

But the horror show onscreen only gets worse. Adam has ceased comprehending what’s happening in front of him, can’t get through the shock as he watches what they’re doing to his son, what they’re forcing him to do, the screams turning to chokes, and finally Adam can’t stand it for one more second, has to look away and take a breath before his brain splits in half.

“Please,” he struggles to say. “ _Please turn it off_.”

And then it’s done. Blissful relief as the laptop is closed and Adam wants to cry, but he holds on, keeps himself together as he faces Ramey, staring at the man’s lapel because he can’t look into those eyes, can’t see the pity there or he’ll jump through that window, blinds and all.

“Mr. Pinkman?”

At first Adam can only nod. He grunts in his throat, trying to formulate the words. Just get it out. Just say it.

“It’s him. That’s my son.”

There’s a sudden rise in the tension in the room, the two agents reacting with some excitement.

“You’re sure, Mr. Pinkman? Absolutely sure?”

“His tattoo,” Adam breathes, still holding himself in check. He waves indiscriminately to his shoulders. “On his back. He got that when he was seventeen years old.” How Jesse had shown it off with a big grin as he explained its cultural significance to placate them, Betty smiling at him in spite of her disapproval.

Ramey points to Hoffman and the man gets up in a hurry, snapping up the laptop and extracting it from its cord before rushing out of the room. When the agent looks back at Adam, he can’t speak, can’t do anything, and before Ramey can get out another word, Adam rushes in.

“I’m sorry, but … can I use the-the restroom, please?” The request leaves his throat in a strangled garble.

“Of course, Mr. Pinkman. Please, take a moment.” He gets up with Adam and stands with arms stiff, following him to the door. Ramey opens it for him and points down the hall. “Third door on your left. We just have a few more things to discuss and then I’ll let you go, sir.”

Adam nods once before making a beeline for the bathroom, his only thought squarely on the egg salad he had for lunch, how it’s making its way up into his throat. His panic floats around him like hovering bees but he won’t go any faster, refuses to make a spectacle of himself in this place, in this silent hall.

He gets through the door, just barely has a chance to scan the urinals and the bottoms of the stalls before he’s bursting through one and is on his knees, goes down so fast the bowl rushes up at him, and then the egg salad and everything else is dumped into the waiting water. The sound of it splashing the sides makes him want to vomit again, and his gorge continues to rise as another wave comes, while all he can see in his head is Jesse, his beautiful boy, running around the house with that manic energy, strutting in his little superhero cape that he’d just received for Christmas. _Daddy, look!_ Adam trying to read the New York Times as his seven year old pesters him. _Daddy! Look at me!_

And then there’s a moan that comes out of him which fills the stall, spreads out into the room like the sickening low of a wounded animal. Adam’s sobs break from his chest, sputter into his mouth with the taste of regurgitated acid and he can’t stop it, can’t hold any of it back.

Jesse. Why. Why couldn’t he fix this? Why couldn’t he make him see? His boy. His son.

Adam opens his mouth and lets his grief pour out in a howl. He no longer cares what they hear outside. He’s here on this floor, puke on his chin, and his son is somewhere being destroyed, being pulled apart, and he can’t do anything about it. _This is what happens_. He sees Jesse smirk at him, a bruise masquerading as strength. Stop it. Just stop this. He cries so hard he can barely breathe.

When he finally makes it back to the room, Agent Ramey looks concerned, his hands on his hips with his suit jacket spread back. Adam is shaky but he makes it back to his seat, so thankful that the laptop is gone. He coughs, clears his throat, picks up the water glass that’s waiting for him and takes a sip.

“Mr. Pinkman, I am so very sorry that you had to see that. I understand how difficult this must be. But please know, this was a last resort. We had to be sure.”

But Adam doesn’t want to hear apologies.

“So what now? How are you going to get my son back?” he challenges, his anger blatant. “Do you know who these men are or not?”

“Well, we have a pretty good idea where to start,” Ramey begins, looking thankful to be getting back to the details of the case. “There were identifying marks on those men, much like your son. We had a description of the tattoo Jesse has on his wrist from his arrest record, but it wasn’t enough to pursue this bit of evidence. Now with a proper ID, we can take a look at the rest of the details more closely. Another man shows up later in the video, and they all have the same tattoos –”

“Wait a minute, how many people have seen this?” Adam asks in horror, imagining an entire team of agents watching the debasement of his child with a rapt fixation.

Ramey looks caught off guard for a moment but quickly backtracks. “Just a very small crew, Mr. Pinkman. This won’t go beyond that. We need to scour each frame for any clue it can offer us, down to the room’s description, sounds that can be picked up and ascribed to an area, triangulating its location, if at all possible. With the sophistication of the equipment we have, you’d be surprised at what we can find out. Of course, tracking the IP address is going to be our first priority.”

“So what about these tattoos then? What do they tell you?” Adam can’t even recall what they look like.

“These men are all decorated with standard prison emblems from the Aryan Brotherhood and their ilk. Nazi insignias, a pair of eights, which is another symbol popular with various white supremacist groups.”

“You think my son is being … held by white supremacists? I don’t understand. What do they have to do with White’s crystal meth operation?”

Ramey leans back and sizes up Adam as if he’s deciding just how much light he can shed on the matter. He sighs in resignation as he folds his hands onto the table. “There’s a significant influx of the blue meth that White produces showing up on the streets of the Czech Republic, as well as various nearby cities,” he tells him. “We didn’t get word of it until we started receiving messages from Interpol about a month ago. The Blue Sky – as it’s known by the street name – has been flooding the market there for almost half the year. We expect White had been shipping it out with another partner. But the point is, White is on the run, and yet there’s been no break in the supply. Someone is still making it, and someone is still getting it into the shipping ports of Prague.”

“You think it’s Jesse.” Adam’s delivery is flat.

“What we’re starting to see is a bigger picture,” Ramey says. “We have Mrs. Schrader’s account to go on and she maintains that your son was working with our agents to entrap White into a confession. They left with the intent to detain and arrest Walter White, who as you know, is also the Schraders’ family. In her last communication with her husband almost four months ago, Agent Schrader is very clear that he has White dead to rights, he even goes on to add that he has him in handcuffs.” Ramey raises his hands in a question. “So, the mystery is what happened? How did White get away? We think that the most likely explanation is that this gang arrived, dispatched our agents, and then, perhaps, made a deal with White. There was talk of money barrels. Either money was exchanged for White’s life, or perhaps he was killed along with our agents, but someone absconded with your son and that means they have a cook now. The reports we received from Europe show that there was a decline in the quality of the methamphetamine for a short span, but now it’s back up to an almost pure level. Jesse might just be the missing link here.”

A dry bark forces its way out of Adam. “You think Jesse learned all this from his teacher, don’t you?” The mockery of what this man has done makes Adam feel sick again but his rage peaks higher. All those times they sat in Mr. White’s classroom and listened to him go on about Jesse’s lack of motivation in Chemistry, that his poor performance could no longer be excused. The memories are an obscenity. His son is now an ace at the subject thanks to that piece of shit.

“It would make sense,” Ramey says carefully. “There have been a few other cases that have slowly made their way to our desk. A shootout in Phoenix  before White took off that left a floor of bodies. It was initially chalked up to a turf dispute between local drug gangs, but we found traces of White’s product on site. Also, there was a murder here in one of the quieter neighborhoods about a week after the shit storm with our agents. It didn’t come to our attention until APD made a connection to this case about a month back. A young Hispanic woman was shot execution style on the front porch of her home. Her young son was inside sleeping at the time, but we have an eyewitness that spotted a suspicious red van across from the house the night it happened.”

Adam scowls, failing to see where any of this will help retrieve his son from sadistic white supremacists. “How is this relevant?”

“Well, once police realized that Goodman’s office had been handling rent expenses on the property we were able to track a record of payment to Mr. Pinkman. We have another witness in the area that identified your son as a regular visitor to the house. They were a couple. This suggests her murder wasn’t just random, but might very well have been a means to keep your son in line, Mr. Pinkman.”

He can only shake his head at the news, feeling staggered and overwhelmed. Who were these people? How did Jesse get so deep into this warped underbelly? That surly teenager who used to spend hours in his room scribbling away at cartoons, now functioning as some enslaved lab rat churning out leagues of drugs to the masses across an ocean.

“I’m sorry, I can’t – I don’t know how much more of this I can listen to.”

“Of course. It’s a lot to take in, I understand. But I want you to know that finding your son is a priority every bit as much as finding our men and bringing them back to their grieving families. Hopefully, if we can find him, we can find White, as well.”

But something strikes Adam as he imagines that homecoming.

“What will happen to him then?” he asks. “I mean, Jesse is a criminal. They’ll lock him away in some cell with the same men” – he waves to the door – “that have him now. Or men just like them. My son will continue to be brutalized,” he states in despair.

“Mr. Pinkman, let’s just cross that road when we come to it, okay? First and foremost, we need to find them. The fact that your son was aiding in apprehending Walter White, the … conditions he’s being held under. This can go a long way to his defense.”

“Jesus Christ, they wouldn’t show that in court, would they?” He couldn’t bear it.

“Like I said, Mr. Pinkman, we’ll figure that out when we get there. Right now, let’s focus on finding your son alive. From the evidence we’ve accumulated, and the fact that this has popped up on the radar, he might still be in New Mexico. We could even be looking in a one hundred mile radius. Jesse could be a lot closer than we thought.”

Somehow, this makes it worse.

“I have to ask,” Adam says softly, suddenly feeling exhausted. “This … video. Why? Why would they do something like this? If he’s their chemist, as you suggest, why put him through that? Endangering his life with-with- that level of barbarism. I mean, what was that thing? Some kind of cattle prod?”

“That’s exactly what it was, sir,” Ramey says matter-of-factly. He sighs again. “These are very bad men, Mr. Pinkman. More than likely, ex-convicts who worked within certain gang factions, which is only going to help us narrow down our search. But your son worked with the enemy. Snitches aren’t treated very well in the prison system.”

“But putting it online? Even if it’s in this underground web, or whatever you call it. Isn’t that a risk?”

“People do disturbing things. And there are those types that will pay to watch it. You would be amazed at the filth we come across every day.”

And with that pronouncement, Adam can hear no more. “I think I need to go now,” he says feebly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he gets home, walking through his front door becomes a surreal experience. He steps inside the foyer and for one glimmering second, he can hear Jesse calling him, sees his son’s thirteen year-old form – all gangly limbs and floppy hair – rush from the stairwell. _Dad, did you get it?_

There’s the sound of a sink running in the kitchen, the bang of pans and cupboards closing.

“Adam? Is that you?”

A moment later his wife appears in the archway to the living room wiping her hands on a towel. Her smile quickly drops. “What happened?” she asks, her expression a sudden tempest of concern.

“What do you mean? I just walked in the door.”

“You’re white as a sheet. I left three messages on your cell. Where were you?” Her eyes tear up as her mouth twists in anguish. “Is it Jesse?”

Adam walks in and sets his briefcase near the sofa, dropping his jacket on the armrest. “I was called in to the DEA building,” he begins. He can’t hide everything and his hands shake a little as he slips them into his pants pockets. “The Special Agent-In-Charge that came to our house. He wanted to inform me that they may have a break in the case.”

Betty rushes up to him and grabs him by his arms. “Oh, God, tell me, Adam. Have they found him?”

But Adam won’t be rushed, affecting a manner of calm and collected. “Where’s Jake?” he asks.

She shrugs her shoulders in defeat. “In his bedroom, where else? I tried to get him to talk when he got home but he won’t come out. He’s got the music turned up and insists he’s not hungry. I saved some dinner for you,” she tells him. “What did they find out?”

Adam cups his wife’s face in his hands, pushing those images away from his mind and out of his home as he makes an attempt at a smile.

“They think he’s alive,” he tells her with a whoosh of breath. “They came across some evidence that has them convinced that Jesse’s still alive.”

He watches his wife’s face crumple, her hands pressed to her mouth as she closes her eyes. A sob bursts from her and then the tears come in a flood. “Oh thank God,” she cries, her body trembling as he wraps arms around her shoulders and tucks her into his chest. “Thank God,” she moans. Adam has grown used to the sound of her weeping, especially late at night, but he strokes her hair as he shushes over her, keeping those terrible things locked away.

She leans back from him, wiping away at her eyes while she shakes her head in dismay. “What evidence? Has someone seen him?”

But Adam shrugs back. “They wouldn’t tell me anything more than that. You know, they’re guarding their intelligence, everything is confidential to keep it out of the press and I was only privy to so much. I didn’t really push the matter.”

“Do they know where to find him?” she asks.

“They’re working on it,” he assures her.

She squeezes him close again. “Should we tell Jake?” she says into his shirt.

“Let’s wait,” Adam advises. Jake’s big brother is hanging on by a thread. “I don’t want to get his hopes up.”

Betty straightens and scans his face, looking for that spark of truth that he knows he can’t keep from her but he makes the attempt to obfuscate anyway. “That seems cruel, Adam. He’s struggling.”

“I know. I’ll go and talk to him later. But if they don’t … I just think it would be worse if … things don’t turn out as we hope.”

His wife studies him for another long minute before finally turning away. “Well, I’m going to believe that it will. Do you want me to heat up some food?”

“Sure. Let me go wash up and I’ll be there in a minute.”

Adam walks swiftly towards the hallway, eager to get into the bathroom and splash his face, the tremors back in his fingers. He wants to take a shower with the hottest water imaginable, to scald the images out of his head and let the grime that clings to him now just wash away. He walks past Jake’s bedroom on the way and hears the steady thump of hip hop music, recalling the years when it had been Jesse always holed up behind his door and he glances across the way to see it closed shut like a mausoleum. As he steps to the bathroom, he catches the glint of glass on the framed picture left of the door. Jesse’s childhood drawings still decorate the house, collected in the hallway like a gallery. Betty refuses to take them down. He sees the crude but early talent of his son’s hand in the lines of the Hindenburg, complete with bodies sprawling, and glances at the caption that tumbles along the side of the page written in jagged crayon. _Oh the humanety._

 _You spelled it wrong_ , was the first thing he’d said to Jesse upon being handed the drawing. That excited and eager little face had fallen instantly, sky blue eyes scanning the work in disappointment as though it had been suddenly tainted. But Adam had told himself then that he had to be tough. Jesse had to be better. His grades were not reflective of a protégé. Look at how Jake turned out. Jake was an achievement. There had to be something to that, some definitive proof that Adam could get it right. But all he can see now is his son hanging from some chamber of torture, can only hear his screams of terror.

He runs a finger down the glass, lets it rest on the artists name at the bottom printed so proudly. Jesse Pinkman, 1994. If only Adam could have that ten year-old again. Maybe he’d do things differently this time.

When he comes out of the bathroom, instead of heading back to the kitchen or to change clothes, he makes his way to Jesse’s old room. Betty keeps it the same and won’t consider converting it into anything else. Stepping past the door, Adam pretends for a moment that his son still lives at home, that there’s still the possibility Jesse will listen this time. That Adam will be enough and Jesse won’t have to run off to prove something, won’t run to that teacher who perverted a sacred relationship into a joke, rendering Adam obsolete in the process.

He kicks off his shoes and sits on the bed. It feels nice in here. Soothing. He feels close to Jesse in this space. He remembers the very last time Jesse woke up from a nightmare, how he’d screamed the house down until Adam had come running into the room, snatching him up like a rag doll to calm him down.

_What is it? What’s the matter?_

_Jesse’s face is streaked in tears, his cheeks puffy, and he tries to burrow into Adam’s body, but Adam pushes him back. Jesse is twelve now. He should be past this. They can’t coddle him anymore._

_Daddy, you left me, his son cries._

_What are you talking about? I’m right here._

_Daddy, why did you leave me?_

_Jesse continues to moan, his body wriggling as he reaches for Adam, struggling to grasp his arms around his neck. Adam grows irritated. He has an early meeting and he needs his sleep. Jesse needs to stop being so dramatic all the time. He’ll have a baby brother soon enough, he’ll need to shape up and learn some responsibility. The thought of dealing with two of them fills Adam with a panic. He can’t have another one like this._

But then Jake had been born and something changed in Jesse. He can see the memory of his son at the hospital, the first time Betty puts his brother into Jesse’s arms and the smile that breaks upon his face is dazzling.

_We could even be looking in a one hundred mile radius. Jesse could be a lot closer than we thought._

Adam imagines such a thing as he lays across the twin bed of his son's youth. Imagines Jesse nearby in someone’s house, locked up down in their basement. The utter terror his son must feel. He pushes the sob that tries to break free back into his chest and forces it to sit there until it dissipates. They’ll find him. They’ll find his son alive. Maybe broken, but he’ll be able to come home.

He knows his beautiful boy with the sun-flecked hair and the sweet and ready smile is gone forever. That his son is a grown man now, responsible for the choices he’s made with his life, no matter how heinous. But right at this moment, all he wants more than anything is for Jesse to be here, in his arms. He drags the pillow that leans against the white frame of the headboard and clutches it to his chest, squeezing it as though it were that little boy again, crying for his father. Why did you leave me, Daddy?

_I didn’t leave you! You left **me**! You left **me** , Jesse!_

Adam Pinkman curls his body around the pillow and weeps softly, hoping his wife won’t hear.

 

 


End file.
